All That I Am, All That I Was
by KimberlyTheOwl
Summary: Will Sherlock be able to find his friend before he becomes someone else entirely? John's dream holiday turns into a nightmare for both himself and Sherlock. The story weaves through amnesia, memory fragments, mysteries and flashbacks. Supporting work from Mycroft. Drama, suspense, H/C and platonic love between best friends. Don't be afraid of the length!
1. Prologue: Dancing Just Out Of Reach

**All That I Am, All That I Was **

**Summary: Without his memories of his life and of his friends, who is John Watson? Unusual circumstances place John in a very special kind of danger, while Sherlock fights against fear, doubt, and government obstruction to get him back.**

**Author's Notes: This was a ton of fun to write, but it was ****_hard_****. I was in the midst of a rather insignificant bit of fluff about hypothermia (which I did finish and post before finishing this one) when I was struck by this scene: John Watson with amnesia, having dreams about his past life and trying to make sense of it all by explaining it to a sympathetic stranger. The tale grew in the telling, as J. R. R. Tolkien once said. **

**This is a complex story, with multiple points of view and flashbacks and a complicated timeline. Even after a dozen editing passes I'm still not sure that I got all the details correct, so forgive me if you find a few plot inconsistencies here and there. I know that you all are really reading the story for the characters and their relationship so I know that you will forgive me the occasional mistake or outlandish plot device.**

**As for the setting, this is very much post-second season and post-return of Sherlock. That's not the main point of the tale, though I do give it a bit of attention here. I really believe that the third season will bring us a Sherlock who is both still a bit shaken by the decisions he had to make at the end of the second season and who is changed by his time away. John probably won't change as much, except to come to know himself better. And now we've come full circle, because knowing oneself is really the heart of this story.**

**I do feel that I've gotten perilously close to melodrama here. Melodrama is when bad things happen to good people; true drama incorporates the weaknesses and failures of a character as part of the reason for the bad things happening. I think that this tale has a bit too much of the first and not as much of the second as I would like, but I still love it.**

**Warnings: None, really. Spoilers for the first two seasons. While there is suspense and (melo-)drama, there's not as much angst as I typically write. There is some graphic violence. This is officially a gen fic, no slash, although there is certainly deep loyalty and warm loving friendship here. You're welcome to look upon it any way you please. I have nothing against slash and read many varieties of it but it just doesn't set my heart thumping the same way that these friendship stories do. That's just the way I am wired.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own these boys and have no legal right to play with them, but I sincerely hope none of you will turn me in. Else how would I keep writing?**

**Please review and tell me what you liked best, so that I might give you more of it in the future. And as always, thanks for reading. Love to all of you.**

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

**Prologue**: **Dancing Just Out of Reach**

"You asked to see me right away." She sat down across from him.

"Yes." He takes a deep breath. "It's about last night's dream. I had the one about the man on the rooftop, again."

"Ah." She drums her fingers on the table and is briefly silent. "That one is bad, isn't it? You're always upset after that one." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I had hoped that the bit of hypnosis last night would help your subconscious mind come up with some new memories."

"Well… It was different, at least. It was worse this time."

"Worse? How?"

"This time… he did it. He jumped. I couldn't talk him out of it. He jumped from the rooftop, and I had to watch. And… he died, of course." It's hard for him to get the words out.

She holds his gaze. "And he was someone you cared about. A friend of some kind." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes." His voice cracks, and he struggles for a moment to regain control. "I still don't remember his name, or anything else about him, really. Just his face, and what he was wearing... But he's in so many of the dreams… even the ones I haven't told you about. I think he must have been a very close friend, the only person I really …" He covers his eyes with his hands for a moment. "The emotion is there, even if I can't remember the facts." He dashes away the tears angrily, looks at her again. "It's a true dream, I know it is. It's a real memory. Whoever he was, I cared about him so much, and he's dead now.

"So there's no point. No point in thinking about who I once was, and no point in going back." He puts his hand forward, touches hers briefly. "I'll stay here, with you and your people and join you in your work. If you'll have me. Whatever I can do to help, you've got it."

Her face remains serious, almost impassive. Clear green eyes meet his steadily. "You still don't really know who we are, or what we are doing here. You still don't even know who YOU are. Are you certain you want to work with us?" She shakes her head. "You don't have to do this, if you want to stay a while longer. We can send in your fingerprints, like we talked about yesterday. We might still find out who you are."

"No. I've heard enough, and I thought about it all night." He swallows. "You've been more than kind to me. You took me in, even though I was unconscious and badly injured, even though I could have compromised your security. You… whoever you are, you have secrets of some kind, yes, but you are working toward goals. I have to believe they are something worthwhile. And I've overheard enough to think that we have a lot of common ground." He looks at her again, and he wonders if his eyes are burning with the intensity of his feelings. "I haven't got anything left to go back to, and there are so many things that I know how to do, even if I don't know who I am. I'm so alone now, and I owe you so much…" He stops. There it was again, that sensation. Lost memory dancing just out of reach, like a loose hair tickling his nose somehow.

She is silent for a moment. "I admit… we took you in, originally, to treat your injuries, and then to keep our operations base a secret. But we've all been very impressed with our mystery man, with his knowledge and skills." She smiles, a warm expression that reaches her eyes. "If you really feel that way, then I believe that we will be glad to have you join us. We can surely use you and your talents."


	2. As Elusive As Spider Silk

**As Elusive as Spider Silk**

_About three weeks earlier…._

"There we go. He's waking up, a bit, I think."

He opens his eyes briefly, only to shut them again tightly against blindingly bright fluorescent light. His eyelids feel crusted; his mouth tastes terrible. White-hot pain lances through his head, and a wave of nausea overcomes him.

"Watch out! Holly, hand me that emesis basin." Strong, capable hands turn his head to the side, where he can feel a plastic basin sliding into place just in time. Someone strokes his hair briefly (which also hurts) while he brings up the contents of his tortured stomach. Afterward, he can feel a damp cloth wiping his mouth.

His head hurts even more afterward. Tears of pain collect in his eyes and course sluggishly across his face, into the pillow. He wants to talk, to ask for someone to help him, but only a weak croaking sound comes out.

"Let's get you something for the pain," says the voice again, warmly, and he wants to weep even more at the sound of these lovely words. He can feel something happening on the back of his hand, a tugging of adhesive tape and then a sensation of coldness in his vein.

The ache in his head gradually lessens, and he drifts back into his troubled dreams.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Mud. Clinging, slippery, tenacious mud, sticking to his boots, turning into a liquid quagmire with the slightest pressure. A narrow, twisting trail. Rain, starting up again into a welcoming, concealing mist.

Danger behind. Can't go back that way, can't. Shouting, now becoming more distant. Only one way out. Faster to leave the trail, run and slip down the side of the hill, despite the danger. Feel the boots sliding through wet and trampled undergrowth, then suddenly a missed step.

Sliding faster, cursing quietly, but trying not to yell. Why not? Why not yell for help? Pursuers might still hear. Take your chances with the mud. Take your chances with the water.

Hitting the water, gasping with the shock and the cold. No, not just water. River, rushing more loudly, drowning out all sound, smothering all thoughts and sending consciousness away into a red blur of pain.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

It's a day or two later, he thinks, although time has become curiously elastic for him; it stretches at some times and compresses at others. He's sitting up in the hospital-style bed now, carefully lest he jar his sore ribs. The breakfast tray in front of him holds a glass of orange juice and a bowl of porridge liberally laced with cream and sugar. The food tastes wonderful. His left hand is bandaged and stiff, so he eats with his right, and is sloppy about it at first, dribbling porridge on his patient gown.

The door opens, and a young woman enters the room. She is wearing a sort of loose-fitting, dark-blue uniform that sets off her dark-brown hair and fair skin nicely. He studies her. She looks faintly familiar; has he seen her before? He has the vague feeling that he has. And although he is bursting with questions on the inside, he is unable to put them into words.

She removes his empty tray from the bed table and sets it aside. "Good, you've eaten nearly all of it. Hungry for more?"

He nods. Words form in his mind, and after a moment or two, he's able to get them out. "Please. It was delicious."

She looks delighted. "You're talking again! We've not been able to get two words out of you since you woke up." She pulls a penlight from her shirt pocket, flashes it briefly at his eyes. "Do you remember much of anything?"

"Not… really." He struggles; his tongue feels thick and strange to him. "Falling. River." He grimaces. "Head hurts."

"Yes, I can imagine. You were found on the riverbank, with a good knock on your head." She touches his scalp, and he can feel that her hand is resting on a tender spot. _Sutures? Feels like it._ "I'll let Dr. Hampstead know that you're talking. She'll want to come by and check on you."

"Where… is this a hospital?" _Hospital._ The word rings through his mind like a bell.

She shakes her head. "Just our infirmary, but we're pretty well equipped. No questions, now, you need to rest that poor head. I'll fetch you a bit more porridge, and then you need to sleep some more. You've had quite a concussion."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"Tell me again about this new dream, how it unfolded."

As always, her voice is cool and professional, unrevealing of whatever thoughts lie behind her eyes.

Every morning, they meet and talk about his dreams. Or his memories. The line between the two is hopelessly blurred, for him. He's more than willing to talk to her; she makes more sense to him than anyone else in this strange sterile place. But at first, he has few words, and his recollections are brief and halting, just the barest outline of what he remembers.

She gives him a notepad and pen, to encourage him to write down his thoughts as soon as he awakes. He complies, and finds that as his written language improves, his spoken language comes back as well. He no longer stammers to find words, nor does he repeat the same dream again and again to her without realising it.

At first he knows her only as a friendly sympathetic face, a part of his morning routine as surely as brushing his teeth… a skill he has recently relearned. In a few days he comes to remember her name after it has been patiently told to him several times. She is Dr. Hampstead, and she serves as the physician to this group of … of what? People, for now, living in what appears to be a windowless bunker, in wherever it is that he has ended up.

Eventually she asks him to call her Donna. That's the day that he weeps tears of frustration at the fact that he can't remember his own name or any part of his past life. She comforts him, holding his hand and speaking soft words, and reminds him of the progress he has made so far, and will continue to make.

Now he takes another deep breath, squares his shoulders. "Right. First, I'm running. Running as fast as I can. I know I have to get there quickly."

"Where?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Long hallways. It's dark, not pitch-dark, but no lights are on. I've only got what comes in from the street. I'm the only one in the building, or at least that's how it feels."

"Go on."

"And I come to the end of the hallway, and the last room, and I run in… And I can see, through the window…" He closes his eyes, trying to remember clearly. "I can see through that window, into a window in the next building. And in that room, there are two people. They're talking, maybe arguing." He opens his eyes. "One is familiar. I've dreamed about him before, a few times now. It's the man in the long dark coat, with the pale face. The other… I don't know him. But he's frightening, he's wrong. He's… he needs to be stopped. He's killed, and he's about to kill again."

"Then I raise my gun, and I put a bullet right through both windows, and I knock him to the floor." He swallows. "It's an extremely difficult shot, with a handgun, but I hit my target easily. And I'm calm, afterward, as if I am really very good at this kind of thing."

She is silent, and he hears the scratching of her pen as she writes a few notes.

"What do you think it means?" he ventures.

She puts down her pen. "I'm not sure, and even if I was… you know I can't tell you." Her expression is warmer today, as well as slightly concerned. The green eyes in the lively, freckled face are meeting his squarely.

He sighs. "Security."

"Not only that. Your memory is still in tatters. Any wrong conclusions that I give you could over-write the few scraps of memory that are coming back. If we want to find out who you are, we need to take it slowly and avoid contaminating your mind with the wrong idea."

She rose from her chair. "I want to repeat the aptitude tests and psychological profiles. Now that you are starting to have more of these dreams, and now that the headaches seem to be going away, I think we'll get some results that are actually helpful."

"Of course."

"My assistant Alicia will come by this afternoon with the test packet. I want you to rest until then. You're still within the first week of your concussion, you know."

He nods. "Graduated return to activity, gradual increase of physical exercise, brain rest until headaches stop, then slow return to full mental activity. Lots of sleep."

She looks at him oddly. "Where did that come from?"

For a moment, _something _dances in front of his mental vision. It's a memory, as elusive as spider silk catching on his face. A glimpse of … a page in a book? An article in a magazine? "Read it. I think."

"Ah." He can tell she is trying to hide her disappointment. "Well, even in the first set of tests, when you were still sick and dizzy, we could see you were a very good reader. Go rest now, and we'll talk again tomorrow morning." She looks at him sharply. "Pen and paper by your bedside, now, don't forget. Even just for a nap."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

After he's been returned to the secure, bare little room that he has inhabited since leaving the infirmary, he listens to the conversation in the next room as best as he can, with his ear pressed up against the wall. It's a habit he has come to develop, to listen to any conversation that he can. He's so hungry for information that he gleans every scrap, every crumb that he can from these friendly but closed-mouth people.

_"The shooting dream again?"_

_"Yes." Donna's voice_. _"There've been a couple of variations. This one sounds like it's in a city, but some of the others make it sound like he was in a war zone."_

_"But it always ends with him hitting his target. Donna, I'm starting to think he was a sniper of some kind."_

He hears a pause. _"Maybe." _ Clink of a spoon against porcelain. _"Could be. He's fit and strong, or was before he fell into that river and hit his head. And it's incredible how fast his hand-eye coordination has come back. But there are all of those other things that he knows. When he first woke up… Stephen, you didn't hear him, once he could talk again, asking about his injuries. He knew all of the correct terms, even if he had a difficult time getting the words out. He seemed relieved when I could tell him what was – and wasn't – broken. Almost as if he's had medical training." _More stirring sounds. _"And just now, he recited the latest recommendations for concussion treatment for me. But then it sounds like he just read it somewhere."_

There was a soft snort. _"Perhaps he's an assassin, then. Knows how to shoot to kill, and what's necessary to kill someone."_

He's heard enough. He pulls his ear away from the wall, feeling cold and weary and slightly sick, and returns to the small hard bed for yet another nap.


	3. A Supercilious, Annoying Manipulator

**A Supercilious, Annoying Manipulator**

The mobile phone buzzes to indicate a received text, startling Sherlock from his thoughts. He pulls it from his pocket.

_You've made a plane reservation, I see. Following me already? –MH_

He glares at the phone.

_Why, yes, now that you mention it. I'm on my way to Heathrow now. I'll be right behind you. –SH_

_You do know it's likely futile. –MH_

_It's not over until I see his body, Mycroft. Don't try to stop me this time. You said you wouldn't. –SH_

_Why are you so certain you can find him? It's been more than three weeks. Even if he survived that fall, there was the river. And exposure. –MH_

Sherlock feels tears of rage and grief spring to his eyes at the tactless words. Again. He's wept more tears in this last week than he has since he came back from his 'death'. When did he become capable of so much feeling, so much grief?

_And whose fault is it that it's been so long? Yours, for not letting me go sooner. –SH_

_We've been over this before. You would only have put him, and others, even more at risk if I hadn't stopped you. –MH_

_You can't have it both ways. Either he was dead already, and my involvement couldn't have made it any worse, or he's still alive and I need to find him. You can either help me, like you promised, or you can piss off forever. –SH._

He stabs out his answer savagely. Wiping angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand, he starts to return the phone to his pocket, just as one more message comes in.

_You'll have any help I can give you. Find me when you get in. I've got a suite at the Clarence. -MH_

He swallows, and decides not to answer… though he feels a wave of relief and perhaps even that foreign concept, gratitude. Finding John in Ireland with Mycroft's help and resources is going to be a lot easier than without his aid. The cab pulls up in front of the airport terminal as he collects his bags and his thoughts.

_John, please. Please hang on. Please be alive. I'm coming for you, I promise._

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

He wakes from his nap, achy and sluggish and hot-faced. Tears still stand in his eyes and leak down his cheeks, and he remembers snatches of a dream.

_Warm hands on either side of my face, briefly, then on my shoulders. Whirling me around until I'm dizzy. I'm breathless, protesting, maybe even laughing a little. Darkness, a train yard. Graffiti in bright yellow. Feeling smugly happy for some reason, but also a little irritated._

The face. The same face, hovering just out of his vision, like trying to look at something with his blind spot. _The human retina has a blind spot, where the optic nerve exits the eye and where the retina has no photoreceptor cells._ Where had that come from?

He can't quite see the face in detail, but catches an impression of tousled dark hair and pale skin. He sees icy cool eyes of an uncertain colour. An earnest expression. A heavy dark wool coat, its collar turned up.

_He is so familiar, somehow. I've dreamed about him before. _He wipes at the tears. _Who was he? Why was I crying in my sleep, and why do I keep I dreaming about him?_

He has no answers to his own questions. He shakes his head, and lies back down. Sometimes, if he goes back to sleep right away, he can remember a little more of his dreams. Or dream a little more of his memories, either way.

Just as he enters the boundary between sleep and dreams, trying to find his way back to the whirling dance and the darkened rail-yard, he hears a voice. It's familiar and somehow warmly beloved… and suddenly he knows, he _knows_ beyond all doubt that it's the voice of the dark-haired man.

_John. Listen to me, John. Close your eyes. I need you to try to remember._

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"He called you 'John'?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "Does that feel right?"

He nods. "Yes. As soon as I woke up again, I knew. I'm John." He smiles at Donna, feeling almost giddy with joy. He has a small part of his identity back, and what's more, he knows beyond a doubt that the man in his dreams was a companion of some kind. He feels so much less alone, now. _Friend? Colleague? Relative? Lover? _It doesn't really matter that much to him… he just wants to find some connection to his past. Some person who knew him.

She smiles at him, then sighs. "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad we know that much. It certainly makes it easier to have a conversation with you. But it would have made things easier if you had some really unusual first name." She nibbles daintily on a fingernail. "But it's a start," she admits. "Listen, I want you to practice something.

"Before you fall asleep, for the next few days, I want you to visualise introducing yourself to someone. In your mind, stick your hand out and say, 'Hi, I'm John'. See if your brain can come up with the rest."

"I'll give it a try." He takes a deep breath. "Donna… may I ask a question?"

She nods. "You know there are some things I can't discuss," she answers guardedly.

"When do I get to find out what's going on here?"

She frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"Here." He gestures about it. "There's a lot I don't remember, granted, but you can't hide the fact that this is a strange place. There's only about a dozen of you here, and I've never seen an outsider. No one seems to leave for very long. There are no windows; I haven't seen the sun since I've arrived. You've got your own infirmary, staffed by you, a full-time physician, plus nurses and techs. You all call each other by your first names, no titles, but there's a pecking order here. A chain of command. And you're all being damned mysterious."

She nods slowly. "I'd say that your observations are spot-on, and that you are more observant than I would have dreamed. But I can't tell you anything more. Not yet. Nothing except what you've already guessed. And… I think that this summary of yours is evidence that your memory really is returning. You must be someone with well-developed powers of deduction." She smiles. "Patience, John. And congratulations on getting your name back."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock folds his long, spare frame into the airline seat. He'd thought about trying for a first-class upgrade (charged to Mycroft, of course) but it's such a short flight, Heathrow to Dublin. His legs are so damnably long, which usually makes for a tedious and uncomfortable experience. At least his shoulders are narrow enough to fit well into the seat and not get hit by the beverage cart when the green-uniformed Aer Lingus flight attendants roll it past him.

Flying is one of the times he always envies John, with his compact frame and his endless patience and his ability to nap under trying circumstances. The times they've been together on a flight, he's spent most of the time shifting his aching legs around, while John dozes almost from take-off. Which is annoying on one level, but, on the other hand, gives Sherlock the opportunity to watch his friend sleep. And watching John sleep, for some reason, usually calms Sherlock, and helps make the flight less tedious.

_But not this flight. _He looks at the empty middle seat next to him. It's not a full flight, and since the middle seats are always the last to book, this one has stayed empty. It's a too-poignant reminder of why he is travelling alone this time.

_"Why do I always end up in the middle seat?" grumbles John, on some long-ago flight to the Canary Islands for a case (that they solved quickly and that actually turned into a brief, rather childish holiday). _

_"I've told you. I need an aisle seat to be able to stretch legs. And you have to sit next to me. I don't want to be shouting around some total stranger if I want to have a conversation with the only other person of intelligence on the plane."_

He smiles a little at the memory. John had clearly been taken aback by the compliment, and had stopped protesting. _Even though we rarely had any conversation on the plane. It was always me deep in my thoughts, and John falling asleep next to me. _

Now, his heart aches painfully as he avoids looking at the empty seat, where he has stashed his heavy wool coat. He doesn't want to think about John right now, doesn't want to think about the last time he saw him alive, doesn't even want his brain to use that phrase.

_I never said goodbye to him. Barely looked at him as he was leaving. _He feels his throat tighten again. _Stop it. That's not going to help._ He retrieves his coat, slides under it completely, his face hidden under the fabric and pressed into the edge of his seat-back.

When the flight attendants come by to offer him excellent tea (one of the reasons he loves this airline, they know how to properly brew a pot of tea), they assume that he's asleep, and pass him by. But under the coat that conceals him, eyes open and staring into nothing while they fill once again with tears, he is remembering.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

_London, about one month earlier…_

"You're absolutely certain you don't want to come along?" Sherlock can tell that John is mostly done packing; he's at that stage now where he's puttering around the flat, looking for small useful items to squirrel away in his luggage. He seems blissfully happy about this holiday, almost literally glowing with excitement. It's a pleasure to watch even if the whole situation does mean giving up John's company and assistance for ten days. "I mean, I'm sure that there's a way to get you on the tour, even now."

Sherlock shakes his head and adjusts the focus on his microscope. "Too much happening right now."

John makes a rude noise. "Sherlock. You don't even have a case. Come on, the criminal classes of London – and the Yard - can get by without you for a few days."

"John." Sherlock looks up from his microscope. "Think about it. Can you really see me spending a week tramping around Ireland, walking stick in my hand, gathering around the pub every evening with my new-found friends, perhaps singing a few songs?"

"Well, then," John sat down in the other chair, looking slightly deflated. Sherlock feels a twinge of guilt. "No. I suppose not."

"This trip, this expedition, is Mycroft's birthday gift to you. In recognition, I suppose, of everything you've done for Queen and Country for the last several years, including helping to keep me alive. He is not normally one to give presents, so I suggest you enjoy it to the fullest." He returns to his microscope. "He probably thinks that you need a holiday from me as much as you need a walking tour in Ireland," he adds.

John grins again, then snorts. "It's funny, though…"

"I fail to see any humour in a simple holiday."

"Okay, it's peculiar, then… that Mycroft just somehow _knew_ that I'd been feeling a bit down about this birthday." John looks slyly at his friend. "And he just somehow _knew _that it was one of my lifetime wishes to go on a walking tour of the Irish countryside and stay at a rustic inn every night."

"Mycroft is a supercilious, annoying manipulator. However, he does have his sources of information."

"Including his little brother, of course."

No answer; Sherlock has turned his attention back to the view under his microscope. Even thus occupied, with his vision firmly trained on the eyepieces, he can sense John sidling up behind him.

"I'll be off tomorrow early, then, to catch my flight. When I come back, though, you're coming out to the pub with me for a belated birthday celebration."

Sherlock resists the temptation to look up from his microscope and turn around, to allow himself to be thanked properly. Of course, this trip is Sherlock's idea, even if Mycroft is bankrolling it. John's been feeling old and tired and uncertain lately, very mid-life-crisis-like, and Sherlock has noticed it. He understands that John is touched by the Holmes conspiracy to give him this amazing birthday gift, and while part of him likes the idea of sitting back and smiling at his friend, admitting his role… his old habit of aloofness and his difficulty in touching people are still with him.

So Sherlock's eyes remain glued to the microscope, and his body language stays as remote as ever. John still reaches up to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Thanks again for putting the idea in his head. I'll see you in ten days."

He can hear John walking jauntily up to his room, taking the steps two at a time. He waits for a few moments before he reaches up and touches his own shoulder, as if belatedly seeking the warm hand that had rested there for a few seconds.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"Sherlock! Yoo-hoo! Look who's here!"

At the sound of Mrs. Hudson's exclamation, he pauses his violin playing. John has been gone for four days now, and the flat has been desperately quiet. There have been no new cases and he is dreadfully bored, without even the twisted pleasure of having John around to witness the usual havoc caused by his boredom. Though he would never admit it, he's ready for any visitor that can converse halfway intelligently. That is, as always, a pretty short list.

He raises his eyebrows as Mycroft enters the room and turns back to the window. "A fraternal visit?" He resists the temptation to make the violin squawk with indignation, since he is secretly glad to have an attentive audience, and instead plays a short melodious passage. "Another state emergency, dear brother? Or perhaps John left you with instructions to check on me during his absence; that would be just like him."

When he turns around and looks at Mycroft's face again, he reads something in his brother's expression. There's an obvious bleakness there, a bit of fear, a dash of guilt. He sets the violin and bow carefully down on the table, and looks at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. "What is it? What's happened?"

"You'd better sit down. There's been a most unfortunate incident."


	4. Of Madness, Grief, and Darkness

**Of Madness, Grief, and Darkness**

Donna reads through his scribbled notes from the night before, or tries to. "The palace? Buckingham Palace?"

He nods. "I know it's rather incredible, but it was a very vivid dream. And most of it made sense, although some of the details are fuzzy. I don't know what we were all talking about, but it was clearly a meeting of some kind, with important people."

"John…" She shakes her head. "John, most Englishmen take a tour of the palace at some point in their lives. At the very least, perhaps you saw it all on the telly."

"No." He leans forward. "I've done the public tour, as a schoolboy. This was different. This was one of the private sitting rooms. I was there with … three other men, I think. We were drinking tea, and looking at photographs. Discussing some kind of strategy. Talking about something that could affect national security, on some level."

She lets out a low whistle. "I'm beginning to believe you. You don't remember anything else?"

He shakes his head. "Well, no, nothing helpful. Just one other bit, but I think it can't possibly mean anything. Just like those dreams where you realise you've gone to class, or to work, without your clothes…"

"You went to Buckingham Palace without your clothes?" The corner of her mouth quirks upward.

"No, that wasn't it. I was dressed. It was one of the others… the man sitting next to me. He seemed to be wearing only a sheet. Very strange, really."

"Only a sheet? What, like native costume of some kind? Middle Eastern, perhaps?"

"That doesn't feel right." He thinks some more. "No… he was as English as me." _And hauntingly, achingly familiar. _"He's the one who's been in so many of my dreams before. He was only wearing a bed-sheet. No shoes, even. But most likely that was just my subconscious adding a splash of colour to the dream."

She nods slowly. "Most likely. But John… I am starting to believe you just may be someone terribly important."

"Is that a problem? Might make it easier to find out who I was."

"Well, yes, and no. With the skills that you've demonstrated, and the fact that our news sources haven't picked up on anyone missing who fits your description, it's possible that you are both important and… well, top-secret, yourself." She laughs, a bit nervously, then touches his hand. "If you've gone missing, it may be that no one wants to admit it publicly.

"Regardless… you're almost fit again. We'll soon have to decide what to do about you. You'll be free to go, of course; it's not like you'll be walking out of here with any knowledge that can truly hurt us. And we've come to trust you. But if your memory doesn't return… well, you might consider employment here, with us."

He searched her green eyes. "You're kidding. You have no idea who I am. You don't even know my last name. _I _don't even know my last name."

"We're… an unusual sort of agency. You wouldn't be the first to take on a new identity with us. And we can give you a name. More than that… we could give you friends, and even a sort of family. A team."

He shakes his head. "I'll give it some thought."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

This time, he isn't sure whether he wants to eavesdrop on Donna's conversation with Stephen. He's desperate to know more about the mystery of his own memory, but fears what conclusions she might draw from this most recent revelation. But the draw of possible knowledge proves inexorable, and once again he places his ear up to the wall.

"… tests show him to be highly intelligent. Great aptitude in mathematics, excellent vocabulary and writing skills. Fast reflexes, too. Stephen, he's still a puzzle."

He misses a few words of Stephen's lower rumble. "… more from the dreams? Or memories coming back to him?"

"Well, yes, a rather odd one. And it's one that leads credence to your theory of him being an assassin or an operative of some kind. He dreamed of being in Buckingham Palace, in a small exclusive private sitting room." He hears the sounds of Donna rustling around with her notes. "Here we are. He says there were three other men there, and that they looked at photographs and discussed strategies. And oddly enough… that one man, whom he's dreamed about before, was wearing only a bed-sheet."

A low whistle. "That has _got_ to be significant. A bed-sheet? To the dreaming mind, that's probably…"

"I know. He denied that it meant anything, but what else could it mean, with what we've been hearing out of the Cairo offices?"

A scraping sound as a chair is pushed back. He jumps away from the wall for a moment, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, but then realises he can still hear them talking. _They've stood up, but they haven't left yet._

"… have got to be careful, though. You know he could be a mole of some kind."

"He's sincere, Stephen. He's not lying."

"The memory damage could have been artificially induced. He could be programmed to kill us all, at the right time, just like in a bad American spy novel." A pause. "But I agree with you that it's unlikely. Keep a close eye on him, and keep his trust, if you can. If we can use him at some point, when he is fully recovered, we will. God knows we always need all of the skilled people we can find."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

It's a moment or two before Sherlock can make his vocal cords function properly again.

"Wait. Say that again. John has been _abducted_? From his walking holiday?"

Mycroft sat down in the armchair. "We have very few details at this time, but it doesn't appear that he was any kind of target. Rather, some of the other guests on the holiday were most likely the primary objective." He looks uncharacteristically grim. "He was merely… collateral damage."

"And a storm. You mentioned a storm…" Sherlock tried to keep the note of suppressed panic out of his voice. _John, kidnapped, in danger, possibly injured._

"Most likely coincidence, but yes. There was heavy rainfall in the area. According to the proprietors at the inn where the group stayed the night before, there was some question about setting out or not due to concern about the trails. But the decision was made to push forward.

"It appears that they stopped for lunch on schedule, but that right after they started on the trail again, the rain started up once more and they came to a washed-out section. The eyewitnesses are reporting that armed assailants came out of the trees and … began to take hostages."

Sherlock jumps up. "On foot? On a well-travelled tourist trail in Ireland, only a few days' hike out of Dublin? What did they do, escape on sheep-back? Mycroft, this is impossible. And improbable." He looks at his brother with narrowed eyes and dawning suspicion. "Just who were these other guests that may have been the primary objective?"

Mycroft sighs. "Important people. People to whom I owed favours, if you must know."

He flops back down on the sofa again. "That … covers a lot of ground. Foreign dignitaries?"

"Of a sort. It was… a very international tour group." He toys with his umbrella. "Ireland remains a very popular destination for many demographics. Let us say that while some of the guests were certainly foreign, they may have had a reputation for … operating on the fringes of legality."

"So you sent John… _my _John… off on holiday, with a lot of mysterious international demi-criminals and God-Only-Knows-What?" He dishevels his hair with his hands. "He's been cheerfully hiking with them, having a pint at the pub each night with them. Probably thinks they're a great laugh, and now he's been abducted with them."

"Not everyone was taken. Four of the guests did manage to escape, which is the only reason we have as many details as we do. John was not among those who escaped to safety. We do know that."

Sherlock leaps up and begins to pace. "How soon can you get me over there? I can't wait for a commercial flight, Mycroft. God only knows what the Garda will make of this mess."

"Sherlock…"

"Interpol, maybe they would be of some help, but I need…"

"You are not going to Ireland, Sherlock."

"What? Of course I'm going to Ireland. With or without your help."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "This is a matter of utmost importance to the government, requiring diplomacy and tact, of which you really have very little. It also requires someone with certain connections. I will be handling all of these details, or rather my people will be doing so. You will be staying here in London. This decision is final."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

_He's running again, this time in some kind of mad chase. It's dark, yet he's running up outdoor staircases and through alleys and even leaping from one building to another. No matter how much he pushes his body to go faster, he is always still a few steps behind the other man. But it feels wonderful and he's enjoying himself immensely._

_He tries to speed up. He has the feeling that if he can catch up, and get a good look at his companion's face, he'll understand so many things. But he can't quite catch him. All he can see is a long wool coat, topped by occasional flashes of dark hair and pale skin._

_On they run through the night, with rapid direction changes that make his head spin. Yet his heart is light. A sort of exuberant joy crackles through his veins, and he finds himself laughing. Up ahead, he's almost certain he hears an answering echo of laughter._

_The scene shifts, blurs. Now it's daytime, under a steely grey sky. He's standing in front of a building, several stories tall. Someone is on top of the building, on the roof. A tall figure, again in a dark coat, again so very familiar. The dream itself feels well-handled, as if he's dreamt it many times before, as if he knows—and dreads- what comes next. _

_"No," he tries to call out, choking with sudden tears. "Don't. What are you doing?" But no sound comes from his mouth._

He wakes abruptly, his heart pounding. It's many hours before he is finally able to drift off again.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"Sod off, Mycroft. I'm going to Ireland. With or without your help." He walks to his laptop and opens a browser in preparation to searching for available flights.

"You will not. Sherlock, stop that and listen to me."

He looks up from the computer. "Do you really think I am going to leave this up to the local authorities? Mycroft, are you insane?"

"No more so than usual, it would appear." He clears his throat. "This is a matter of national security. The entire situation is extremely sensitive, politically. I cannot afford to allow an amateur investigator to become involved."

"Not even your own brother?"

"_Especially_ my own brother."

Sherlock snorts. "Amateur. After all this time, after all that I've managed to accomplish, that's still how you see me?" His voice is bitter. He leaves the computer, returns to sit upon the sofa.

"There are … details, complications in this situation that I cannot tell you about. Certainly not now, and perhaps never. I cannot allow you to become involved."

"I'm already involved. You involved me when you sent off my only friend to enjoy himself on a doomed holiday." He spits out the words. "Why, Mycroft? Did he fill some obscure demographic need on the tour group? Were you hoping he would get cosy with some ambassador's lovely private secretary and gather information? Or did you just have a spot to fill?"

"I thought, as you know very well, that the man deserved a vacation. And I do seem to recall that his actual destination was at least partly your own idea." Mycroft's voice is level. "A few days of a regular schedule, fresh air, exercise, actual meals… You wear him out, Sherlock."

"Boring. Unimportant. If John really cared about those things, he wouldn't live with me."

"No. God only knows why, considering how you treat him, but he cares about you more than those things. So he lives with you anyway." He clears his throat. "And, I admit, he does seem to thrive on a certain amount of excitement."

"I'm going to Ireland."

"No, you are not."

Sherlock folds his arms. "Just how do you plan to stop me?"

His brother matches his stare. "By seeing that your passport is revoked and that every port of exit in Britain is closed to you. Likewise with every port of entry in Ireland. If necessary I shall have your bank accounts and credit cards frozen. If truly necessary, I shall have you arrested. Or hospitalised, which given your past history might be easier to accomplish… I am, after all, your next of kin. It would be simple to arrange." He moves a few steps closer. "Do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock glares back furiously at his brother, but he knows in his heart that he is beaten for the moment. He feels his body sag, his face crumple. "John needs me. And you're keeping me away. Mycroft…" He is disgusted to hear his voice shake. "Mycroft, you know that I have the best chance of finding out what happened. Of helping him." He feels tears of anger beginning to sting his eyes, and blinks them back furiously. "Don't do this. Don't make me wait here, powerless. You know what that will do to me. That kind of inaction… you know I can't take it." _Madness, grief and darkness. Drugs… anything to soothe the pain, the disruption._

Mycroft sits down beside his brother. "I must. I cannot allow you to leave the country, Sherlock. You will have to let my people – and the local authorities – do the leg-work on this." He puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I _am_ sorry." He sounds sincere, but Sherlock doesn't really care.

He shrugs off the hand. He can feel the traitorous tears now, starting to leak from his eyes and run down his face. "Go away," he whispers. "Just go the hell away." He closes his eyes tightly, wraps his arms around his knees and pulls them to his chest.

The hand makes another unwelcome appearance on his shoulder. "There is one thing I can do. I shall have my people forward to you all of the information that we turn up, so that you may add your analysis to theirs." The hand slides along his back, tentatively at first, and then Mycroft lays his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Believe me, Sherlock, I would not exclude you if it were not absolutely necessary."

"Mycroft… please go away." He covers his face with his hands. "Go away and carry out your investigation. Leave me alone."

After a few more moments, he feels his brother's arm slide away, and hears Mycroft walk away and start down the steps to the street. Sherlock waits until all is silent for several heartbeats, before he throws back his head and howls out his anguish.


	5. The Hands of a Healer

**The Hands of a Healer**

_Semi-darkened room. Concrete floors and walls. The overpowering smell of chlorine. He's standing stock-still, trying not to breathe too loudly. There's a voice in his ear, coming through the plastic earpiece. It's a smooth, hated, insane voice. It's giving him commands, telling him to speak. He doesn't want to but he has no choice but to do as the voice says, say the words that he is told to speak._

_But what is he wearing? He's way too hot in this heavy parka, and wants to take it off, but for some reason he can't. Something bad will happen if he does. Oh… that's right. The explosives. He's weighed down with them, explosives and wires and other bomb devices._

_He speaks the words coming into the earpiece, as he has been instructed to do, using a flat, mechanical voice. Who is he talking to? He can see a slim figure on the other side of the pool, but he's slightly backlit and John can't make out much detail._

_And then the voice that was previously only in his ear is everywhere, filling the room. He hates that voice more than he has ever hated anyone or anything. A small man appears, strutting like a peacock, radiating equal measures of confidence and twisted genius. John begins to think that perhaps, while these two are talking, trading verbal sallies and quips, he could leave and somehow escape all of this. But… no, he can't do that, that's wrong, he's a part of this, somehow… it's not just the explosives strapped to him, there's a reason that he must stay, there's a reason that he's now looking at the first man with an expression of desperate questioning._

_And then he sees the red laser sight that is on his chest, and his heart begins to race…_

"John! John, wake up." A hand touches his shoulder, shakes it.

Muzzily, he shakes his head and opens his eyes. Small, bare room… clearly his tiny dormitory room just off the infirmary. Bedside lamp turned on. A weight on his bed indicating that someone is sitting down on the edge of it. No pool, no explosives, no firearms, none of the elements of his dream.

He sits up and gets his eyes to focus. The weight on his bed is Donna, concern showing clearly in his eyes. He groans. "What… was I shouting something?"

She nods. "Nothing intelligible. But you were clearly having some kind of terrible dream. You screamed, and I had the devil of a time waking you up."

He swallows hard, feeling his heart still racing and tries to will it to slow down. "Sorry." Now that his eyes are adjusting and the inner terror is decreasing, he can see that she is dressed for bed. Nightgown, a feminine but businesslike dressing gown, and slippers. He feels obscurely embarrassed.

"I hated to wake you," she went on slowly. "A dream that powerful probably represents some important memory, something very crucial to your identity. But you were yelling pretty loud, and this room isn't exactly soundproof. I didn't think you'd want the entire unit in here."

"Thanks."

Solemnly, she pours his a glass of water from the insulated carafe on his nightstand. He accepts it gratefully and drains most of it. His heart is beginning to stop its pounding.

"Do you remember any of it?" she asks quietly.

He nods. "It… wasn't very pleasant. Did… did I yell anything in particular?" _Names? Clues to the mystery that is my mind?_

"I didn't think it would be… and no, I couldn't make out what you were shouting. Tell me what you dreamed." Her voice is soft but steady and insistent.

So he does his best to tell the story of the dream. As with all dreams, it fades from his mind even as he tries to articulate the details. It's like trying to catch snowflakes with his bare hands before they melt. But in the end, he thinks he has come up with most of it.

"Do you know who either of them were?"

"Let me think for a moment." He takes another gulp of the cool water. "The first man… he definitely felt familiar. He might have been the one I've dreamed about before, but he didn't have the long black coat this time. Yes, I'm almost sure of it. The second one, the one who came in at the end… I don't know." He shudders and quickly puts the tumbler down to avoid spilling water all over himself. "I don't know his name, or exactly who he was. But I think that the sight of him, the sound of his voice… I think that must have been what made me scream."

She touches his hand, sympathetically. "John, the explosives…" She looks away, pauses for a moment. "That sounds like the sort of get-up used for a suicide bomber."

Silence in the little room. "Well," John answers finally, hoarsely. "I'm alive. So if I was a suicide bomber, I don't seem to have been a very good one. And I'm damn sure I wasn't a volunteer." He searches her face. "Donna, I don't know what it means. But I know I was very, very frightened. And that I thought I was going to die."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock sits heavily down on the sofa while his brain tries to process Mycroft's latest news. "No." It's all he can seem to come up with.

True to Mycroft's promise, he has kept Sherlock updated on the case, with files (both paper and digital) forwarded to him as well as a daily phone call for the last three days. Sherlock has essentially memorized all of the facts of the case, but to his frustration, hasn't come up with any new angles. He knows that he needs to be on the ground, at the scene, closer to the action and to his possible sources; reviewing facts and someone else's analysis isn't going to do it. But today Mycroft arrived in person, and his air of weary defeat announced bad news even before the words left his lips.

"I'm afraid so." Mycroft remains standing. "Both the rescued hostages and the few tourists that escaped the initial altercation were clear on the facts. No one saw John Watson after the appearance of the terrorists."

"John is resourceful. He's clever. He may have been able to escape when the terrorists appeared." _Why have I never told John how clever he is? What if he never gets the chance to hear me say that?_

"But no one has seen him. If he escaped, why hasn't he made it to safety by now?" Now Mycroft sits down on the sofa next to him. "Search and rescue operations are ongoing, but there's been no sign of a body …"

"Good."

"… and no one answering John's description has showed up at the local hospitals. Nor anywhere else." Sherlock can feel Mycroft's gaze upon him. "The local searchers have seen signs that someone about John's size slid off the trail, near where it was washed out. Into the river."

Sherlock says nothing, stares off into space.

"I am not, by any means, suggesting that you give up hope entirely, dear brother. But you need to at least entertain the possibility that he may be dead."

"John would not give up on me, were our position reversed." Sherlock's voice is low. "Even when I was supposed to be dead, he never truly accepted it. He's not dead, Mycroft, not unless someone can show me his body."

"Very well. I should have expected no less, I suppose." He rises. "I do feel some responsibility in this situation. I will be leaving soon for Ireland, and will do what I can to personally put the authority of the Crown behind this search. I will keep you informed, of course."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'll be right behind you. Assuming, of course, that you are no longer trying to keep me a prisoner."

"No. Since the hostage situation has been resolved, you are now free to travel where you will, although I do beg you to exercise caution." He heads toward the stairs.

"Mycroft …" Sherlock stands, as his brother turns and lifts an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

He looks down at his feet, swallows against a painful lump in his throat and says words that are usually foreign to him. "Thank you for telling me yourself. And… for using your influence." He raises his gaze to his brother's face. "I need John. Please. I need him. Please help me find him."

Mycroft actually puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock… it may be that no one can find John. You must be prepared for that possibility."

He shakes his head, feeling his eyes fill again with unwelcome, embarrassing, hateful tears. "No. He's alive, and either your people will find him, or I will." He gulps. "I won't abandon him. Not while there is any chance that he lives."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

John twitches in his sleep with the latest dream.

_"Here! This is the worst one. The rest can wait a bit."_

_He swears under his breath as the stretcher comes to a halt in front of him. Blood coats the young man's chest and pumps from an irregular, fist-sized hole on the right side. A thick pressure dressing is in place but doing little to stop the flow._

_"Beth!" he calls out, without looking around the makeshift OR to see where she was. "I'm going to need you on this one. He's going to need more hands than I have."_

_He hears the other young trauma surgeon handing off her case to the nurses and medics, leaving them to the more routine work of suturing and tidying up. Meanwhile, he and the other nurses start getting the patient prepped and draped while the anaesthesiologist performs a rapid-sequence intubation. By the time everything is ready, Beth is gowned and gloved and across from him. She starts exploring the wound while he gets gowned and gloved._

_"Subclavian's nicked," she mutters darkly. "No wonder he's got so much blood in his chest cavity."_

_After that they don't talk much, but both occasionally swear under their breath as they work. Together they are able to stop the massive haemorrhage and get the patient stabilized, while the anaesthesiologist pours blood and fluids in the patient. Fragments are removed, holes in important blood vessels are sutured, and finally they are able to close the gaping wound, leaving in a chest tube running to suction, keeping the lung expanded._

_The nurses and other ancillary staff push the patient away to the recovery tent. Both surgeons strip off their bloodied gear and lean against a table for a moment to breathe._

_"Bloody hell. What else came in?" she asks._

_He shakes his head. "Nothing that bad. Some burns, smaller lacerations. One closed head injury with a small scalp lac who's a little dozy but I think will be all right from the description I got. And Donaldson broke his arm diving for cover. Supracondylar fracture, not too displaced, but he's going to need ORIF. We'll get him evacuated for ortho once his pain's under control."_

_She nods, then frowns. "That's a lot of shouting out there."_

_"You're right." He can hear it now, too, now that he's less focused on the boy they'd just saved. Shouts coming from the triage area, in several different voices. One of them both terrified and threatening at the same time. He looks at Beth, and they both start inching slowly to the tent door._

_"Take him back next! Take him back, now!"_

_It's another excruciatingly young soldier, but this one is uninjured. Not unarmed, though. He has his sidearm out and is pointing it, with a shaking hand, at the medic in charge of the triage area. _

_"Now! Take him back now," sobs the young private. "You can't let him die!"_

_John takes a deep breath, steps into the triage tent. The private swivels and brings his gun to bear on John instead of the medic._

_"I want the doctor! Are you the doctor?"_

_"I'm one of them. Put your weapon down, private." John hopes his voice isn't shaking. "You don't want to get into that kind of trouble."_

_"Are you the best? Tom needs the best." No sign of the weapon turning away._

_"I'm the senior surgeon here," he parries. "And your superior officer. Son, you are getting yourself into a whole lot of trouble. You want your friend to get help, that's just fine. But you can't point a gun at me or anyone else to make it happen faster." He steps a little closer. "Why don't you put that down and show me your friend and let's see what we can do."_

_The barrel of the gun wavers for a moment, then the private slowly lowers his weapon. John walks up to him, scarcely breathing, and takes the gun from him._

_"That's better. It's hard to practice good medicine when you're staring down a gun barrel. Now… let's go see what's wrong with your friend." He passes the gun to the MP who has suddenly appeared, and waves him off to keep him from apprehending the young soldier. "I'll check him out, and if he's in danger, I promise you we'll take him right back."_

He awakens, not screaming or panting this time, but still drenched in sweat. That had been an incredibly clear and lifelike dream. But it made no sense. He was a doctor? A surgeon? In a war zone? He shakes his head, disbelieving.

_I just don't know. Maybe it was all something from a show on the telly. I can't imagine doing those things. Or can I?_

He sits up in bed and looks at his hands, turns them over, studies them. He remembers the way they felt in his dream, the way they confidently grasped the fine instruments through the thin surgical gloves. The feel of the needle holder in his hand as he pulled the suture material through the skin, as if he had done so thousands of times before. _Are these the hands of a healer? Or of some kind of killer? Both? Neither?_

He has no answers, and lays awake a long time.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

The next morning, for the very first time, he edits his dream as he reports it to Donna. He leaves out all of the part where he performs surgery, and presents his role only as an army medic involved in an altercation with an overexcited young soldier, worried about his best friend.

"So you were able to talk him down, and disarm him without anyone getting hurt?"

He nods. "That's pretty much it. That's about when I woke up."

"Could you tell where you were?"

"Someplace hot and sandy," he says with a certain amount of bitterness. "Nowhere around here." He looks away. "Donna… you've been monitoring the local news? Hasn't anyone reported me missing? Or someone who sounds like me?"

"Not that we've heard, yet."

He fights down disappointment. _Didn't I mean anything, to anyone? I thought I had at least one friend, even though I can't remember his name or see his face clearly in my dreams. _"Well… it sounds as if I must have been in the army. Surely my fingerprints would turn up something."

She nods. "That's a thought. If you want to, we can send them in." She touches his hand. "Let's do this. Give us one more day. I feel you are so very close to getting all of your memories back, and I'd rather not involve the military if we can help it. You see, they don't really know about us, or our work here. Not officially."

John raises his eyebrows, and she hurries on. "We're all working toward the same goals, of course. But well… we try to fly under everyone's radar. We answer only to the Crown and the Prime Minister. Letting the Army in on our work could be awkward."

He lets out a low whistle. "That's more than you've told me before."

"And it's really more than I should have let slip." She stands up. "One more day, John."

He is also standing, and she has almost left the room, when she stops. "John… you're so close. Let me try hypnosis on you tonight." She raises a hand at what he imagines must be an expression of frank scepticism on his face. "Nothing complicated. Just a light trance before you fall asleep, and a suggestion to remember. It just might work."

And she does, and that night he dreams of his mysterious friend in the long dark coat, who finally leaps from the rooftop and lands, graceful even in death, in a broken, bloody heap upon the pavement.

When he awakens, he weeps silently into his small hard pillow, for a very long time, before he makes his decision.


	6. In His Heart, Like A Touchstone

**In His Heart, Like a Touchstone**

In the end, it's a very short discussion.

"Donna tells me that you would like to join us." Stephen looks across the table at John, his fingers steepled across the lower part of his face.

John nods. "If it's possible. If you think you have work for me." He feels his heart rate pick up slightly. He already likes this blunt, capable man.

Stephen opens a file that is on the table between them. Without even trying to read the papers upside-down, John knows it must be _his_ file… all of the information that Donna and her team have compiled about him during his stay.

"What do you know of our group, John?"

John spreads his hands out on the table, palms up. "Not a lot. You're secretive without coming across as paranoid. You work for the British government on some level. You answer only to the Crown and the PM." He thought for a moment. "This place feels like a bunker. I see the same faces every day. Everyone seems well-educated and talented. There's a chain of command here, but it's hard for me to sort out. I haven't see any rank insignia, heard any titles… except the few times I've heard Donna called Dr. Hampstead." He meets Stephen's gaze. "You're a damn strange group, but I'm intrigued."

Stephen nods. "Fair enough description." He swivels slightly in his chair. "All right. We - and our sister branches in other locations – are what the Americans would call 'black ops'. The public doesn't know about us, and we don't show up in the official budget. I'm not actually sure where they have buried our funding, but probably in some department that has very little to do with national security.

"We have branches around the world, in locations that are either frequently visited by important government representatives or by British nationals in general. Our mission combines both skilled espionage and sometimes the provision of an additional layer of security above and beyond what is provided by our Secret Service. A secondary purpose is for us to provide – in each of our locations - a refuge, a bolt-hole of last resort in case of disaster, for both the Royal Family and key government officials." He smiled. "You don't appear to fit into either category, but you certainly seem to be a distressed British national, and you did rather fall into our laps. So we took you in and patched you up. Good practice for our infirmary staff, too.

"Donna has cleared you to return to normal activity. She states that while you don't have your memory back completely, you are able to carry out all everyday tasks and have normal recall for events that have happened since your recovery began. She tells me that you have high mechanical and scientific aptitude and that your hand-eye coordination has returned to normal. She says that you still get an intermittent tremor in your left hand, but that it seems to go away when you concentrate on the task at hand." He closes the folder. "And I hear that you've been taken to our firing range."

"Yes… yesterday afternoon. Donna thought it might bring back some memories."

"Her assistant was taking notes on you. She says that you handle a gun like it was an extension of your hand, and that your accuracy and steadiness are uncanny. She'd like to see what you can do with a rifle as well. She'll take you back out there this afternoon right after lunch." He leans forward, his gaze more intent.

"This is good timing, actually, John. We've got an urgent need for several good agents to protect a potential target who is in Dublin and is expected to be especially vulnerable tomorrow."

John gulps. "Tomorrow?" _Dublin? Am I in Ireland? I guess I should have asked._

"Yes, and we are stretched pretty thin." He looks at his computer. "He'll have his own regular security, of course, but we have reason to believe that there are some fringe groups that would really like to see him dead and that may just try pretty hard. He's been here for a few days but apparently tomorrow is the day we expect trouble. Official word is that he's here for some kind of conference, but we've been tipped off that he's really here to help investigate a disappearance of some kind… related to a recent hostage situation not too far from here." He scrolls down, clicks on a link. "He's known to us only as 'Iceman'. Minor government functionary, officially, but in reality, someone with a whole lot of unofficial power."

"How can you use me?" _Tomorrow? What am I getting into?_

"You're a crack shot, so primarily as a back-up sniper. But more than that: Donna tells me you've had military medic experience. We need someone on the scene in case it all goes south, someone who could keep his head, take charge of the situation, and provide first-aid under dangerous circumstances, perhaps even under fire." His gaze is keenly focused on John. "Donna also thinks that getting back in the saddle, so to speak, would probably shake the rest of your memories loose. We're willing to take that risk."

"Risk?"

"The risk that you'll come back to yourself, and want out of our operations." Now there's a kindness around the eyes. "From what I've heard, it sounds like there may not be much out there for you, in the way of friends or family. No attachments. So even if your memory does come back, chances are you'd be even more effective for us."

He takes a deep breath. "I'm in. Tell me more."

And as he takes in the details of the briefing, he leans forward. His gaze grows as keen as that of a greyhound, and the last remaining vestige of tremor fades from his left hand.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"You in position yet, John?"

He finishes locking the support struts in place under the rifle, and snaps the scope on. "Just about." He takes a preliminary sight through the window.

"Report is that Iceman will be coming through your checkpoint in about ten more minutes. They're ahead of schedule. Unmarked Bentley, most likely in the kerb lane."

John adjusts the fine focus on the scope. "Still no word on who – or what – the threat is supposed to be?"

"Nothing more definite than we knew at the briefing. First three checkpoints saw nothing."

His stomach tightened. "So, it's up to me, and the last two guys."

A pause. "John, it's _all_ up to you. None of you were told your exact order in the route. You're the last checkpoint. Whatever is going to happen, if it hasn't been called off, it's going to be at your spot… You may be new… but you're one of the best shots we have." Another pause. "We've got another viewer stationed below you, remember. Two sets of eyes. He'll tip you off if he sees anything from the street level."

He swore silently. "Roger that. Thanks for the vote of confidence." He watched the street below, trying to simultaneously see everything yet watch the curb lane closely for the anticipated car. _Traffic is heavy right here. Plenty of time for a car to have to slow down, wait for the light, wait to merge._

When he finally spotted the car, it was moving so slowly as to be anticlimactic at first. He saw it stop a couple of blocks away, at the red light. And then his gaze was transfixed by the figure on the sidewalk, hurrying to the passenger side of the car.

Long and lanky. Dark grey coat with the collar up. Tousled dark hair. A familiar loping stride.

The man from his dreams. The man who had jumped from the roof. The man who had been running around London with him, who had been – somehow – in Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet, and in that darkened building, near the swimming pool.

Who'd known his name. Who'd grasped his shoulders, in the dream, and earnestly told him to try to remember.

_I know him._

_I know him as surely as I know anything._

_That's Sherlock. My colleague, my flatmate, my best friend._

_And… he's alive. Oh, God, he's alive._

And it all comes back to him, all of the events of the last few years, and all of his eventful life, like a mental avalanche into his brain.

John takes his eyes away from the scope, let his hands fall away from the rifle as he physically staggers with the weight of returning memory. He puts his hands over his face and feels all of it re-enter his mind, at once.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

He wonders how he could possibly have forgotten that day. It should have been burned into his brain, somehow, in a way that only his own death would remove. _I remembered his death, but not his life. Not who he was to me, that impossible, infuriating, amazing man. Not how he came back from the dead._

The quiet flat. Stuffed full of memories and peculiar objects, but empty of the presence that had so animated it. No random violin music, no odd scientific ventures, no shouted rants from an excitable young man who _needed _a case, absolutely _had_ to have cigarettes right away, _required _entertainment or he would surely dry up into something brown and brittle and blow away. No noise at all, except those sounds that John himself made, and the occasional visits from gentle Mrs. Hudson.

He'd tried to go away. He'd moved in with his sister for a few weeks, just to get away from the oppressive silence. He'd gone back to the flat to start sorting out Sherlock's possessions, intending to pack up the scientific equipment to send to a school and to dump most of the personal items on Mycroft. He'd only planned on keeping a few odd items, such as the skull, the damaged Cluedo board, and perhaps Sherlock's violin.

But he hadn't been able to leave. He'd spent the night there, and the next day had gone back to Harry's for his things. It was somehow easier than he'd thought to simply slip into a pleasant, protective daydream, in which Sherlock was merely off being very busy somewhere and never quite got around to coming home. He went back to full-time medical work, and indeed worked as many hours as he was allowed, to fill his empty days and stay busy. His income became respectable again, so that he was able to pay the full rent to Mrs. Hudson, who was clearly glad to have him staying.

He'd kept to himself, mostly. He still maintained a friendship with Greg Lestrade, but it was many long weeks before the two of them could go out for a pint or two without inevitably talking about Sherlock. Indeed, the first time they went to a pub together, a few days after the funeral, John had gotten into an ugly brawl with a man at the bar who'd recognised him and made a few snide remarks about 'that crazy detective fraud'. He'd had to be pulled off of him before doing him serious damage, and it had taken all of Lestrade's connections and smooth persuasiveness to keep the man from pressing assault charges.

The second time they'd gone out, John hadn't started any fights, but had ended up weeping into his pint glass by the second beer. Lestrade had taken him home by cab and stayed with him for several hours, comforting him and sharing the trembling grief that had stayed pent-up inside him since the funeral.

Eventually, he'd achieved a sort of equilibrium again. It wasn't normal, it didn't represent happiness, but he could work and eat and sleep and talk to his friends and occasionally even smile.

And then one evening, so many months later, he'd come home from work and a quick stop at the market, only to find the flat occupied by a living ghost. Sherlock stood in the sitting room, gaunt and filthy, tangled and torn, barely recognisable, but unmistakably himself and unmistakably alive.

He'd dropped the groceries in his shock. The sound of food and packaging crashing to the floor had been loud, but he hadn't flinched at the noise, had only stared straight ahead.

"You had better be real," he'd said hoarsely. "I don't want to be having hallucinations at this point in my life."

And then Sherlock had smiled at him, the expression breaking through the exhaustion to light his face like a beacon… the sweet, genuinely joyful smile that other people almost never saw. The smile that chased away anger and disappointment and that always made John forgive his flatmate of almost any insanity, despite his better judgement. So he'd thrown caution to the winds, and stepped forward and into his friend's hesitantly open arms, laughing and weeping and cursing all at the same time.

Afterwards had come the explanations, the rationalisations, and even a good spate of arguing and shouting. He'd been angry at the deception and the long absence, even as he came to understand the necessity behind it. But none of that had really mattered; the memory that he'd kept in his heart, like a touchstone … the memory that counted, that had been missing and was now returned to him … was the feel of Sherlock's arms tightly about him and the sound of his friend's voice murmuring brokenly.

"It's all right, John. It's finally all right. It's over. I'm here, I'm real, and I'm home. I'll never leave again."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"John! Do you read me? There's your target! He must be!"

With a wrench, he brings himself back to the present, and puts his eye to the scope just in time to see Sherlock pull open the passenger door and force his way into the Bentley. _And why is Mycroft driving around Dublin with his doors unlocked, like an idiot? _came the unbidden question.

"John! Damn it, John, you've got to fire!"

"No…" he whispers. "No," he says more loudly, still dazed by the knowledge of who and what he is. "That's his brother. They're together." He adjusts the focus to see into the back seat. He follows the car as it pulls over and parks by the kerb.

"Jesus, John, they're fighting. I can see it from here. It might be too late."

John swallows against a dry throat. Sherlock has grabbed his brother's shoulders and is shaking him, clearly angry and upset. Mycroft doesn't appear to be doing anything to defend himself. The driver and guard are both casting concerned glances over their shoulders, but neither one has chosen to intervene.

"He's not the threat. I know him. That's his brother."

"You know the Iceman's brother? Wait, you _know_ the Iceman? Jesus, John, who are you anyway?"

_I know Sherlock's not the threat. So who is?_

And then he sees him, with the clarity that comes only to one who has seen warfare. The sausage cart, on the sidewalk, so ubiquitous and so harmless, so close to Mycroft's car. The proprietor – audio earpiece visible to the powerful sniper scope that John was using - was just now putting down his tongs and his bottles of tomato catsup, reaching into the cart, pulling out the gun, starting to head for the Bentley. _Death in his eyes. Some kind of fanatic, terrorist, not a professional._

With the blood roaring in his ears and the sweet intensity of _knowing_ exactly what he's doing he takes careful aim with the rifle and drops the sausage-seller with one quiet bullet.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

"Sherlock! Stop it." Mycroft finally breaks free from his brother's grip. "Get yourself under control. You are making a spectacle of yourself."

"He's alive, Mycroft." Sherlock lets go, breathing hard. "Or at least he was as of a couple of days ago. And you knew something about it, you bastard. Why didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft straightens his jacket. "I knew … something. Nothing definite. Nothing that I could pass on to you without getting your hopes up." He frowns. "The real question is, how did you know anything about it? You've no 'homeless network' in Ireland."

"I've got some old connections here. You were overheard in at least one of your phone conversations. You should be more careful."

"How ironic, coming from you."

The car begins to pull away from the curb. "You had better tell me everything you know, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice is low and dangerous. "Wherever he is, if he's alive, I'm going to find him."

"_If_ he's still alive, Sherlock, there is a chance that he may not be… intact."

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Mycroft stares straight ahead. "The one report I have … very sketchy and unreliable, from one of our most unconventional and secretive agencies … seems to indicate a certain degree of brain damage. Memory loss, to be exact."

Sherlock's throat tightens. _Brain damage._ John, with his memory perhaps destroyed beyond recall, his fine clear intellect clouded. Those capable physician's hands, bereft of their skills. "So what. So if he's … _hurt_, then I'll get him help. Whatever he needs. God knows, I owe him that much, at least." He takes a deep breath, as the car comes to a stop at the next light. "I owe him everything, anything he ever needs. But first I have to find him."

He looks over at the street corner, a sudden motion catching his eye.

"Mycroft!"

His brother raises an eyebrow.

"Someone just shot that sausage seller. Something is up, here." Sherlock unlocks the door, oblivious to the fact that the car is starting to pull away, and gets out… loses his balance briefly as his feet hit the pavement, then runs for the sidewalk.


	7. Both an Instant and an Eternity

**Both an Instant and an Eternity**

"John! What's happening?" The voice crackles in his ear.

"Target is down. Repeat, target is down." He looks again through the scope. "Down and not moving. It was a sausage-seller, waiting for the car to come by. Jesus, that was close."

"Any sign of a second man?"

"Negative."

"Okay, looks like you were right. Iceman looks fine, and whatever was going on with his … brother, seems to be okay. How did you know who he was, John?"

"That's the point. Stephen, I need to leave my post. I know who he is, because I've got my memory back."

Dead silence. Then, on the earpiece again, "Someone's getting out of the Bentley."

"Crap." John looks through the sight again and sees the unmistakeable figure of Sherlock leap out of the car just as it begins to pull away again. He flings down the rifle and scope, makes sure his pistol is both hidden and handy, and starts for the lift.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock feels vulnerable as he walks toward the sausage cart, but the lure of _something is happening_ is, as always, stronger than his own instinct for self-preservation. It's been three days since they arrived in Dublin and until today, with the whisper of information that he's obtained, they've been futile hours. Not a word of John, not a hint, until an old classmate from university (female, married even then, kind to him even then) tipped him off regarding a rumour of his own brother's conversations.

He stops briefly at the sausage cart. The man is down, unconscious, but still breathing. The bullet took him in the abdomen, from the blood stains. He's no medic, so doesn't stop to help, but looks around for more information. _Why would someone shoot a sausage-seller? _He makes a quick study of the cart: standard appearance, but only a few cooked sausages on hand, only one bottle of ketchup, and only a little bit of cash in the box. _He's only been here a short time, then, and the lunch rush was hours ago. Makes no sense. Therefore, he was something more than a bloke manning a sausage cart. _Looking at the man, again, he sees something he didn't see before: an earpiece plugged into one ear. He rolls the body over with this foot, sees the gun that the body was hiding.

_Assassin._

He hisses through his teeth, picks up the gun. This isn't his own country and he wasn't able to bring any weapons more deadly than his own brain through international security, so he'd be an idiot to pass up this opportunity right now. He shoves it into the pocket of the Belstaff coat, and lopes back to the sidewalk. Amazingly, downtown Dublin goes about its business without taking any notice of what is happening; apparently no one noticed the shot or the collapse of the sausage-seller except Sherlock himself.

He stops dead at the sight that greets him. There's a man running toward him, whose appearance and gait is emblazoned on every neuron of Sherlock's brain. Short and compact, tightly wound, with efficiency in every motion… blondish greyish hair in a no-nonsense cut, eyes alertly scanning everything that is happening to either side of him. But not behind him, no, because to look behind him would be suspicious-appearing.

_John._

In the split-second that he has to do so, before reacting to everything else, Sherlock drinks in the sight of his friend. Alive, quite well, striding purposefully down O'Connell Street in downtown Dublin. He looks _right _to Sherlock, not at all like someone dealing with a head injury or brain damage or memory loss. Joy starts to burble up inside him, swelling to a chorus of operatic proportions.

_But who is that behind him?_

Sherlock narrows his eyes. John is being tailed. There is a man behind him, medium height, short hair, nondescript in every way, who doesn't _feel_ right. He walks an exact number of paces behind John and never takes his eyes from him. Like the sausage man, he has an earpiece visible, with the white coil of headset wire snaking down his neck.

He ducks behind a trash bin, heart pounding (_why? He's been in so many dangerous situations before? But now he is trying to save John's life…) _and lets both John and his intent pursuer pass by him. Then he slips out around the other side of the bin and takes up a stealthy role behind the man he is beginning to think of as the…

_Second gunman, and that's exactly what he is, because he's reaching for the gun, and there, he's got it, and John is a sitting duck and I just found him and I don't want to lose him again…_

Sherlock leaps forward with everything that he has, and tackles the man around the knees so that they both fall to the pavement.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

John is frustrated. He knows that Sherlock is around here somewhere, but he is too conscious of possibly being followed to search effectively. He's lost sight of Mycroft's Bentley, his sure life-line back to his old world, but isn't too worried about that; Mycroft probably has cameras in Dublin as well. _Now that I've surfaced, he'll find me one way or another; the important thing is that he's safe. But where is Sherlock?_

Then he hears the noise behind him, and reflexes take over. He turns in time to catch the struggle, almost an entire block back.

Sherlock is on top of the man, but they've both landed badly, and it's the stranger who struggles to his feet first. He's got his hand on his waistband, clearly pulling out a gun, and as if in slow motion John can see it all happening, wants to yell, starts running to his friend's rescue…

… and sees a handgun appear in Sherlock's own hand, hears the report of the gun, and sees the impossible fountain of blood erupt from the stranger's chest.

He slows down, then, and makes sure that his own weapon is well hidden. That man, that assailant, isn't ever going to leave this spot. John knows he is looking at a dead man. Sherlock shot him from point-blank range, close enough that he himself is liberally sprayed with fresh warm blood, close enough to blow open a sizable hole in the chest. He's just standing there, looking stunned, though he has tossed the gun away from himself into the trash bin.

Sherlock looks up just as John approaches at a run. Their eyes meet for what is both an instant and an eternity.

John grabs his elbow. "We need to get out of here. Now. Where is your brother?" He look to the street, and oh, it's a beautiful sight, and he tells himself that he will never say anything petty about Mycroft again, because the Bentley has gone around the block and is pulling up to the kerb again just in time for them. He gives Sherlock a shove. "Now! Run, get in, I'll be right behind you. Run!"

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

As soon as the door opens and Sherlock is all the way in, John dives into the back seat. He lands ungracefully, mostly on top of Sherlock, with his chin thudding painfully against Mycroft's shoulder. He sits up.

If he weren't in such a hurry, he'd take time to treasure the completely pole-axed expression on Mycroft's face. He'll probably never see anything like it again.

"Bloody hell, John…"

"There's no time to explain... Mycroft, someone is trying to kill you. I think I just stopped him – oh, God, I hope I did – but there was a second gunman, and he was trying to kill me, and your brother just got him, and it's all a bloody mess." He swallowed. Bloody mess was a good description; he could smell the blood that had liberally spattered Sherlock. "Get us out of here. Tell your driver to get out of the area, go somewhere, anywhere other than where you were headed. Now!" Long-disused military crispness comes through in his voice.

Mycroft hits the intercom to the front seat. "Griffith! Change of plans. Get us on the motorway, as soon as you can. Any route. Quickly!"

The car lurches as the driver carries out his instructions, cutting across three lanes of traffic. With no seatbelt to keep him safely restrained, John loses what little balance he had and falls over again. Only Sherlock's arm, coming up around him by some kind of protective reflex, stops him from flying completely across the rear compartment and cracking his head on the window.

"Thanks," he says breathlessly. He feels both of Sherlock's arms come around him from behind, steadying him. He's in a rather absurd position, sideways almost on his friend's lap. He struggles to sit up properly and slide into the middle seat, but the arms tighten around him convulsively, like a living safety belt, and he's forced to stay more or less where he is. He twists around to try to get a better look at the so-familiar face whose identity has only returned to John's mind in the last few minutes.

He's both startled and touched to see that Sherlock seems to be crying. He's being quiet about it, but those are definitely tears running down his cheeks, mingling with the blood spatters from the body of the second gunman. His eyes are closed and he's still clutching at John like a child holding a broken toy. John puts his own hands on top of the arms that are holding him. "Hey, it's okay," he whispers.

"You're alive," comes the response. "Everyone said you were dead, but… you really are alive."

He looks over at Mycroft, expecting to see Mycroft rolling his eyes at his brother's unusual display of sentiment. But even Mycroft is looking at John with a mixture of relief and incredulity, and _his _eyes are suspiciously moist as well.

Very, very, gently, John extricates himself from Sherlock's embrace and slides off of him into the middle seat. Mindful of the way the driver is still near-flying the Bentley, he takes a second to buckle himself in. Only then does he take a deep breath and ask the obvious question.

"You thought I was dead?"

"John, you have been missing for one month and presumed dead for a good portion of that time," answers Mycroft, while Sherlock surreptitiously rubs his sleeve against his eyes. John feels Sherlock's gloved hand stealing into his, out of Mycroft's view, fingers very real against his own. He squeezes back reassuringly, and feels a delighted grin split his face. _Guess the crazy bastard really was worried about me._

Mycroft continues. "The Garda could not find you. My best people were unable to find you. Even Sherlock has been unable to find you."

"Oh. Well, I'm not dead. I was … underground, sort of. Only I didn't really know who I was, most of the time. So no wonder you couldn't find me. Although you might have been a bit less secretive about it. The people I was with told me that no one answering my description had been reported missing." He raises his free hand to rub his forehead. "Mind you, some of it … a _lot_ of it is still a bit foggy. But I think I'm all right."

Gentle fingers – Sherlock's, who has finally let go of John's hand – probe his scalp. He closes his eyes briefly at the familiar touch. "Your head… you had a head injury." Sherlock looks at his face, his eyes, and John can read the worry in his probing gaze.

"All healed now." He's grinning again, his smile so wide that it almost hurts. He's flying on a wave of adrenalin and success and sheer happiness. He can see when the gladness finally spreads to Sherlock as his friend gifts him with one of those rare, intense smiles. "I'm fine. Really. Although the explanation is going to be a very, very long story." He takes a deep breath. "Get us somewhere safe, Mycroft, and deal with the authorities, and I'll tell you the whole bloody tale."

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

It takes a couple of hours, back in the hotel suite that Mycroft has commandeered, for John to both tell his story and to piece together all of the other details. By the time he is finished, he's exhausted and his sentences are punctuated with yawns.

The ride back to the hotel had been narrated by Mycroft's conversations with the local authorities, explaining the mess that John and Sherlock have left behind on O'Connell street. Even here in Ireland his influence is unmistakable; the fact that the two assailants were trying to assassinate a key figure in the British Government is apparently enough to keep John and Sherlock out of any serious trouble. They'll have some lengthy testimony to give, but there will be no charges.

Sherlock, who has admitted to John (under questioning) that he hasn't slept in several days, has fallen asleep on the beautifully upholstered red sofa, his head lolling to rest on John's shoulder. John can't bring himself to shake him off or even to gently reposition him so that he's lying down properly. The contact is both trusting and touching.

He's more than a little worried about his friend. Sherlock had been very, very quiet all the way back to the hotel, and had secretly held John's hand much of the way. He'd headed for the shower as soon as they arrived, to wash off the bloody spatters and change into pyjamas and dressing gown. John wonders just how much the day's events have shaken him. Worry about John, discovery of John being alive, and then being forced to kill another man to save his friend, all within the space of a few minutes… that was a mixture to make a steadier man than Sherlock have a case of the shakes.

Finally the tale draws to a close, and Mycroft's questions seem to have run out. The three of them – only two of whom are awake – sit for a few minutes in a companionable silence. John and Mycroft are both sipping excellent brandy, sent up by room service after the late supper that had preceded it. Sherlock's glass sits abandoned on the small but elegant coffee table, only a mouthful or two missing.

"Well, John, congratulations on a very well-managed escape from a very bad situation… and, apparently, on a complete recovery from your injuries." Mycroft speaks up at last. "Nevertheless, your actions … or perhaps I should say, your predicament, will be keeping me busy for a few days."

"My predicament?" John swirls the amber liquid in the snifter, watching lazily as it moves. Rarely has he felt both so exhausted yet so utterly content. Sherlock sleeps on, with occasional faint snores.

"I suspect I will be having some _very_ long talks with the director of that unusual agency that took you in and found such interesting work for you. Stephen, you said his name was?"

"Yes. I didn't learn very many surnames or titles."

"We'll have to see what we can do to make them realise that you are just as valuable to the Crown in London as you are as some kind of superhero covert ops sniper-medic with their agency. Technically, John, you are now a sort of deserter, you know."

John laughs. "I suppose I am. But they really are a very practical agency, Mycroft. I don't anticipate you'll have any difficulty convincing them that I should go back to my old life." He slips an arm around Sherlock, who is still dead to the world, and shakes him enough to provoke a soft groan. "Just remind them about your brother, the Loose Cannon of Baker Street. I'll merely be on permanent detached duty, keeping an eye on him for Queen and Country."

Mycroft inclines his head gracefully. "A desperately difficult task, and a noble cause."

John smiles, then turns his attention back to Sherlock. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, stop drooling on me and go to bed." John wriggles out from his cramped position on the couch and stands up, stretching. Sherlock slumps over on the small sofa, then opens his eyes. John extends a hand to him, which he grasps, and he allows himself to be pulled up to a standing position. "Bed. Now." Sherlock nods in response, looking half-asleep and confused.

John sits back down and watches, a fond smile on his face, as Sherlock stumbles into the adjoining bedroom. "I wonder how long this will last? Him listening to me, I mean."

"It cannot last too long for me, John. You have been a steadying influence on my little brother all along. I've never really thanked you for it."

"Is that what you're doing now?" asks John, enjoying the moment.

"Yes, it is. " Mycroft lifted his glass, sipped at the fine, fruity brandy. "I am grateful to you, John. Without your influence, your… faithfulness, I seriously doubt whether I would still have a brother." He cleared his throat. "I think that either his recklessness or his dark depressions would have caught up with him, and he would be dead."

John drank a swallow of his own brandy. "I think that you underestimate him."

"Perhaps. But … during the time he was undercover and presumed to be dead, he was really not the same. I had regular contact with him, you know, once he revealed his plots to me. It was clear to me that he missed you desperately. You are his friend, but also his sounding board, his reality check, as it were. He is quite devoted to you."

John nods. "Perhaps. I don't know. I just know that we make a good team." He feels his throat tighten slightly. "And yes… of course I care about him. He's infuriating, but there's no one on earth quite like him." He yawns hugely.

Mycroft studies John, and some amusement comes through. "You are weary. Even assuming that you actually eat and sleep, unlike my little brother, I shouldn't keep you up much longer."

He indicates the door to the bedroom that Sherlock has just entered, currently slight ajar. "I can notify the concierge to prepare another room for you on this same floor. It's absolutely no trouble. Or…"

John clears his throat. "I can just bunk with Sherlock. Nothing will disturb him at this point. And, to be honest… I just recovered from a month of amnesia. I just got myself back, Mycroft. The last thing I want to do is be alone again. Waking up in a strange room, without a familiar face…" He shudders and wraps his arms around himself. "And… he might need me. He seems a bit traumatised by all of this."

Mycroft stands up, gracefully. "As you wish. By the way, I have recovered your luggage from your original Irish walking holiday. It's all in there, and I have had it all properly laundered for you." He once again waves in the direction of Sherlock's suite bedroom.

"Thank you." John rises and extends a hand to Mycroft. "For everything. Thank you for keeping him sane, in my absence."

Mycroft's handshake feels very heartfelt to John. "Dear Dr. Watson. You and I, at least, truly are finally on 'the same side'."


	8. Epilogue: A Sculpture of Sharp Angles

**Epilogue: A Sculpture of Sharp Angles**

When John wakes up, in near-darkness, he first feels the familiar wave of disorientation sweep over him, just like he experienced during his weeks of amnesia. But as his eyes adjust to the moonlight shining through the window, the sensation only lasts a few seconds, and his memory successfully brings him up to the present time. Ah, yes… he's in a luxury hotel suite in Dublin, in a ridiculously large bed. Sharing with Sherlock, out of a combination of feeling obligated to keep an eye on his friend and being too tired to care about sleeping arrangements.

He can see the bedside clock easily. 3:22 am. He rolls over and is dropping off to welcome, luxurious sleep again when he hears it. It's probably the sound that woke him up in the first place. Not much, just an audible sniff. But it's followed by the sound of irregular breathing… quiet, but not the sounds of a person sleeping peacefully and deeply. No, these are the sounds of someone who is awake, and is trying to cry – or, perhaps, keep from crying - as quietly as possible.

He sits up in the bed and looks over at the other side.

Sherlock is sitting up, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his pyjama-clad legs. Even in the dim light, John can clearly see the hugely dilated pupils and the fine tremor of his friend's jaw. Tears are coursing sluggishly down his cheeks, and he raises one hand to scrub at them.

John scoots over, puts a hand on his friend's arm. It's cold to the touch; he must have been sitting like this for some time. "Hey." He smiles, not sure that Sherlock can see much of his expression, but trying to look and sound reassuring. "You know, I usually recommend sleeping at this time of night. Especially for someone who – by his own account – has been up for about three days straight."

Sherlock shakes his head. Robbed of all colour by the touch of the moonlight, he's a perfect study in black and white. He's a cloud of dark hair and huge silvery-grey eyes and a sculpture of sharp angles of elbows and knees. "John," he finally murmurs.

"What?" John decides that the emotional roller-coaster of the last 24 hours – hell, the last few _weeks_ - is enough to justify sliding his arm around his friend's thin shoulders. Sherlock doesn't really react, doesn't relax or lean into him at all, but neither does he shake John's arm off.

"John… in the Army, how many times did it take?"

He tightens his arm, trying to quiet the trembling he can still feel beneath it. "How many times … did what take?"

"Killing people." Sherlock swallows loudly. "How many times before it stopped bothering you?"

_So that's what this is about._

"It has never stopped bothering me, Sherlock. Never."

"But our first case together… the cab driver. You were like a rock. Nerves of steel. No regrets."

"I had more time to think about it, Sherlock. More time to tell myself that I would shoot him if he threatened you. And just more experience coping with the aftermath."

He's silent for a few seconds, but John can see the muscles of his jaw still working. "I didn't… I knocked him down, and grabbed his gun, but I didn't think I was going to have to kill him. But he had that second gun…" His eyes stare sightlessly out into the dimly lit room. "I didn't think. I just pulled the trigger. John, he was only a few feet from me."

"I know. I saw." _And it's not a sight I'm likely to forget._

"All that blood… and the look on his face, as if he were surprised."

"It was clear self-defence. He was threatening you with a firearm. And besides, he was trying to kill me. And your brother."

"I know," he whispers. "But I would rather not have killed him. Not that way. He was just following someone's orders, John."

"You've … never actually killed anyone before." It's a statement, not a question. "In all this time you've been doing detective work."

"Not directly. Not by my own hand." He shakes his head.

John pulls his friend closer to him, so that Sherlock's head rests on his shoulder. He leans his own head against those tangled dark curls as he thinks, and listens to his friend's ragged breathing. No… while the two of them have dealt with violence in many forms, he's never seen Sherlock kill anyone. Throw a man out a window, yes. Duck out of the way while a booby-trapped safe killed a gunman, yes. Trade punches, knock assailants unconscious with a gun-butt, get half-strangled... all of those things, but he's never actually seen Sherlock fire a gun at anyone.

"All that time you were…" he almost says _dead_, but thinks better of it, "gone, dealing with Moriarty's accomplices… I guess I always thought you had had to kill some of them."

"No. It never happened. Mostly I turned them over to the locals. When I couldn't do that… I had help. Mycroft assigned me a couple of boys to secretly back me up, do the dirty work, and to keep me from knowing the details. He was always overprotective."

"He wasn't just protecting you, Sherlock, he was trying very hard to keep you human." _Especially while I couldn't be there to listen, to do exactly what I am doing now. _John pulls away far enough that he can get a good look at his friend's face, and places a hand under Sherlock's sharp chin. "Look at me, Sherlock."

Wide grey eyes, tear-stained, meet his. "All the time we've been working together… I've had to learn that I'm not you, that I can't be you. I don't have your brain, your special genius for putting the puzzle pieces together.

"And you're not me. You've seen and done a lot, but not war. You're not a soldier. Don't base your expectations of how you should react to… to what you had to do today, based on what you see of me. I am wired very, very differently than you.

"I shot a man today too. From a window, with a sniper rifle. But I knew exactly what I was doing and I spent hours preparing for the likely possibility that I was going to have to kill someone. And I knew, at least when it finally happened, that I was doing it to protect your brother." John forces a smile. "He's a bit of a dick sometimes, your brother, but he does have his uses from time to time."

Sherlock twists his chin out of John's grasp to look away, out the window. "Every time I think of it… all that blood spraying out of his chest and all over me, I feel sick."

"That's exactly how you are supposed to feel." Now John moves closer and tentatively wraps his arms around his friend. To his relief, Sherlock doesn't stiffen up but relaxes and slides his own arms around John's back, returning the hug and resting his head on John's shoulder.

"You know, Sherlock, I didn't just patch up soldiers' bodies in Afghanistan." He strokes the beloved dark head and pulls him even closer, feeling an almost overwhelming wave of affection and gratitude. "I had an awful lot of conversations like this with young men and women, seeing – and having to do - horrible things for the first time. It's a normal way to react."

"But I've never been normal," comes the muffled response. "Normal is boring."

John chuckles. "Now you are sounding more like yourself." He pats Sherlock's back, tightens his arms around him until he half-expects to hear ribs creaking, then gently pulls away. "Think you could get some sleep now?"

"Sleep is boring, too," he answers, with a ghost of a watery smile.

John glares at him with mock ferocity, then flops back down onto the bed, rolls over and burrows into the lovely down duvet. "I do have to admit… your brother has nice taste in hotels. I could get used to a bed like this." He looks back over his shoulder. "By myself, though. Without a skinny, bony git like you in it, taking up more than half the room."

He hears a chuckle behind him, then a sigh. "John?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"John?"

"Mmm?"

John almost jumps as he feels the thin, slightly cool arms slide around him from behind. "Please. Don't ever go missing like that again."

He feels his throat constrict, and grasps the arms that are wrapping around his chest. "Deal."

End! Let me know how you liked it. :)


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